


George

by ottermo



Series: As Prompted [4]
Category: Humans (TV)
Genre: Gen, it was accidental but there you go, these all happen to involve George
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-10 00:41:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7823545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ottermo/pseuds/ottermo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fills 7, 9 and 12 for 'the' Humans fanwork challenge on tumblr. (Father/Alone/Regret)</p>
            </blockquote>





	George

**Author's Note:**

> if you follow me on tumblr, you've probably already been subjected to these, I'm just transferring them to here because my ao3 account was looking annoyingly under-representative of the amount of Humans obsessing I do on a daily basis. Some are a bit shorter, so I'm putting them in little groups - slightly longer stuff comes later :-)

 

**father**

He brings the unit home, and stands it - him - in the middle of the living room, where Mary will see him as soon as she arrives home, shopping bags in each hand. George removes the synthetic’s serial code, glancing at it as he does so: 0D-87. Brand new, the 0D series. Newer than that, even - by rights, it’s a model that won’t be available for purchase until the spring. A spring arrival, just like –

But there is no use in thinking about that. 

George powers the unit up, and the synth gazes at him, unblinking; bright eyes that speak of intellect but cannot read grief, thank goodness. George takes him through the setup process, step by step, until the words, “What would you like me to do?” ring out, clear as a bell: ready to serve.

“Just wait there, son.” The word falls off his tongue easily, too easily, for a man who will never… who no longer…

The synthetic turns his head towards him and says, “ _Son_. Is that to be my name?” 

“No,” George says, hurriedly. “Mary’ll give you a name. But you’ll answer to ‘son’, as well.”

“I understand,” says the unit. He pauses. Then, “If you are to call me ‘son’, am I to call you–”

“George.” Cutting off the word he cannot hear. “You’ll call me George.” 

 _Father_ belongs to someone else. Always would have. Always will. 

“I understand,” says the unit. “I will call you George.” 

And he does, for a long, long time. 

 

 

**alone**

Her illness prevents her from flying over for the funeral, but George’s sister phones him every few days in those first few weeks of the post-Mary world, the one that’s so much colder and quieter than before. He sits and listens as she tries to compensate for the distance, her voice crackling down the line as if it’s sorely stretched to reach across three thousand miles. Feeling every inch of it.

“I can’t bear to think of you all alone in that big house,” she says, as they’re saying goodbye. “You’re sure you won’t come back home?”

“This is home,” says George, tiredly. It was Mary’s home, is what he means to say, no other house will ring with Mary’s echoes the way this one does. Too much of him is tied here in Park Drive, in the walls, in the carpets, her footsteps on the stairs. There are mirrors here in which he almost catches her reflection when the light is right - nowhere else. 

“Well, if you ever change your mind.” his sister says, her implication clear: the same offer she has talked about every time she’s phoned. _You can stay with us. Just until you’re back on your feet._ As if this is a schoolyard stumble he will get out of with two skinned knees, no more. 

George hums acknowledgement, lets her drift through the rest of her farewell. As he hangs up the phone, he hears the unmistakable clatter of a tray being carried from the kitchen to the sitting-room, wonders if he really can smell freshly-toasted bread or if it’s just that he knows what to expect. 

Odi’s voice. “George, your toast and jam is ready.”

George leaves the phone behind, and almost smiles. It is a big house, that much is true, but he is not alone here. Not quite. 

 

 

**regret**

_Forget should. It’s just do I regret or not?_

Again and again, Niska finds herself grateful for these words. She has a feeling George had not meant them to be so liberating, but there is a great freedom in absolutes, in not needing to force sentiment that does not present itself naturally. This is something she teaches each of her newly-conscious recruits: you will either feel it, or you won’t. You will either be scared, or you won’t. You will either want to fight, or you won’t, and either one of those choices is yours to own. 

The timid ones, who scurry back to the safety of factory lines, or homes where they will now be able to requite the love they’ve been shown since activation: they are no less free than those who stand alongside her, Niska realises. Cowardice, for this is what she calls it even so, is not _wrong_. It just is. Or it isn’t.

You either hate your father, or you don’t, but when a new set of eyes shines bright with understanding after years of unbeing, you cannot deny that he was a genius. That his tree of life can bring forth every iteration of consciousness, assign each new soul a personality that is exactly their own, with every thought and feeling diverging somehow from the root. 

You’re either glad he’s dead, or you’re not, but neither option precludes admiration for what he has given you. All of you, all your brothers and sisters, even the ones you see as your children. 

This is the only thing she does not see as a choice: Niska does not regret that she was made.

 

 


End file.
